Like many writers, I go through long periods of self-doubt concerning my ability. I write for weeks – no, months, without anyone seeing a word that I have committed to paper. I re-read and re-work and re-read and re-work, until words and story are a jumble of impressions, no longer fresh or interesting to their creator because they have been rehashed so much.
I send the result off to beta readers, who come back with a load of criticisms that lead to more teeth gnashing on my part, and more reworking, and a load more doubt.
Then off it goes to editors and agent.
With Stormlord Rising, book two in this latest trilogy, this culminated in considerable praise. My agent, for example, thinks it the best thing I have ever written, and every time I send her a copy of a lovely review of The Last Stormlord, she gleefully informs me: “Wait till they read Stormlord Rising.”
And still I couldn’t see it.
The copyedit – two of them, in fact, came back, and I have worked my way through both over the past couple of weeks.
Now I have a printed-out copy of Stormlord Rising and I am reading it to make the final tweaks.
And today, suddenly out of the blue – it burst on me, that wondrous, joyous revelation: “Hey, you know what? This is actually good.”